


The stale despair of night

by zinjadu



Series: Wed to Blight [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair is occasionally serious, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Darkspawn, Death, Gen, last stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 09:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13187436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: Betrayed by Teryn Loghain and a horde of Darkspawn about to kill them all, Alistair and Caitwyn Tabris make a desperate bid to survive the Tower of Ishal.  Though there is little hope, they work together to buy themselves time.  For what, they don't know, but they aren't about to give up without a fight.





	The stale despair of night

Alistair shifted his shoulders and leaned back slightly to look out the thin window at the battlefield below.  They had lit the signal as ordered, and he knew they should stay and guard it for a few moments at least.  However, once Teyrn Loghain began his attack they might be free to join the battle, and he wanted to note where Duncan and the other Wardens were so he could join them.  But something strange was happening.  The Teyrn’s forces weren’t moving.

 

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the signal was well and truly lit, blazing away thanks to that Circle mage Caitwyn had rescued in the courtyard.  Caitwyn noticed his confusion, but then she seemed to notice everything with those big green eyes of hers.  She was far from wide-eyed however, and her face was damn near impossible to read most of the time, often set in an expression of polite yet distant attentiveness.  He had startled a laugh or two of her, he thought, and she had looked shaken for half a heartbeat after Daveth and Jory had died.  Before she reached for the chalice that had spelled doom for two others before her, and had done so without flinching.

 

Now she only raised a dark eyebrow at him and cocked her head in a silent question.  She was quiet, too.  Damned spooky quiet at times, but she was good at what she did, no doubt about it.  Shaking his head as if to say he wasn’t sure, he returned to watching the battle, and then he saw it, the move, the break in the line.  But instead of rushing to reinforce the King and the Wardens, Teyrn Loghain retreated.

 

And left the men and women on the field battle to die.

 

“What?!  No, no, no!” he yelled, his voice drowned in the storm above and the fight below.   His mailed fist slammed into the ancient stone.

 

“Ser Warden, what is it?” the Circle mage asked, a quaver in his voice.  That ogre had terrified the man, but he still had done his duty, and Alistair couldn’t fault him for it.

 

“The Teyrn is retreating!  The King and the Wardens are in trouble down there, we have to get moving,” he said, taking a final moment to mark Duncan’s place in the fight, and turning.  Then Caitwyn fired her bow from the center of the room.  He followed the line of the arrow to where a genlock fell over, struck in the throat with an arrow.

 

“I think we have problems of our own,” Caitwyn countered, her voice barely registering above the din around them.  Her face was the picture of crystalline focus as she shot darkspawn, one after another as they tried to come through the doorway. 

 

“Damn it!” he cursed and formed a shield wall with the Tower guardsmen that had followed them here.  His blade hacked and slashed at the darkspawn that tried to push past them through sheer numbers.  Caitwyn’s arrows whistled past his ear, close enough that he could feel them pass through the air, but she never missed her mark, able to finish off darkspawn before they could get to him.  The mage did all he could, focusing on protective spells, keeping Alistair and the other men upright, and then there was a break in the onslaught. 

 

“There are more coming,” Caitwyn said, suddenly right beside him, and he nearly jumped out of his skin.  She had moved without a sound, and she turned one pointed ear toward the stairs.  For a moment, she listened, counting off to herself, and then the corner of her full lips twitched downward.  Whatever she heard, it wasn’t good.  “Many more are coming, but they’re in the tunnels still.  I can thin the ranks as they come up the stairs, buy us time by making a few traps.  There’s plenty of scrap here.”

 

“To what end?” a Tower guard asked, grit and death in his voice already.  There were a few other men in here with them, and they had the same grim expressions.  “No other way down.”

 

“Oh Maker, we’re going to die here aren’t we?” the mage asked, quailing.  Alistair didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth.  Instead, he looked down at the newest Warden in the ranks, and she looked back up at him, a hard, bitter determination in the set of her jaw.

 

“Do it, I’ll cover you as you place them,” he told her, and she got to work, deft fingers assembling traps and tripwires faster than he could believe.  They worked in silence, Alistair standing at the ready in front of her, ready to defend her if any darkspawn came up while she was working.

 

“I’m done.  Watch my feet, step _only_ where I step so you don’t trigger the traps,” Caitwyn told him.  Tension bleed into her voice in defiance of whatever control she was currently holding onto, and he followed her, though with markedly less grace than she possessed.  Then they regained the top of the tower where the other survivors waited.  Waited, and listened to the men and woman die below them to the sound of thunder.  If he was some kind of hero, this would be the time to give a speech, to rally the people behind him as they stood ready to face their deaths but take as many darkspawn with them as they could.  But he was no hero.  Instead, he set his shoulder and held his shield at the ready, his right hand closed tightly around the haft of his sword.

 

“Forget honor,” he heard Caitwyn say behind him, her lilting voice even and measured.  Every man there turned his head to look at her, small, even for an elf, her dark hair hidden under her scout’s cowl, but she seemed to be the realest thing in the Tower, as if she was somehow more definite than stone.  She didn’t look at them, keeping her eyes focused on the doorway, the doorway through which they could all hear the clamoring darkspawn now, their guttural, twisted voices and raucous, stomach-churning laughter echoing up through the stone tower.  “Forget glory, forget service.  This is survival, and I don’t know about the rest of you, but I aim to live.”

 

No one said anything, but the atmosphere of the tower turned from piss-stinking fear to grim, mad, determination in moments.  That was what heroes did, what leaders did, he knew.  Found a way to turn fear into something else, even if there was no way out.  They let people face the end with their heads held high, and she had done that.  He caught her eye, and she nodded, a puff small breath escaping her lips as she knocked an arrow, her quiver full thanks to a bit of scavenging. 

 

Alistair breathed deep, and even though the air was putrid and stinking of death, he let his lungs have their fill.  Then they came, the darkspawn boiling up the stairs, and the men at his flanks tensed.

 

“Hold, men,” he ordered, “hold.”  They did, and they let Caitwyn’s traps do their work, clamping down legs, triggering gouts of flame that that caused chaos in their ranks.  But the traps could only do so much, and then the darkspawn were on them.  There was no holding a line, there never could be, but he did his best to draw as many of the creatures to him as he could, letting out a challenging shout to keep their attention. 

 

Teeth bared in a snarl, he fought, smashing his shield against genlock faces, cutting his sword along hurlock bodies.  Then one of the emissaries entered the room, flinging magical bolts at every step.  Alistair took a bolt of magic on his shield by instinct, angling it down slightly to deflect the blast away from his face, but others were not so lucky.  The bolt split into several lines, boring holes through the chests of two of the guards, their bodies falling over to the floor, surprise on their features.  He had no time to spare for them, however, and he barreled into the emissary, knocking it over.  He reached _across_ , as he had been trained to do by the Templars, though without lyrium thanks to the Taint in his blood, and he brought his sword down, cutting down the creature’s connection to the Fade.

 

It screamed, a chilling mix of agony and rage, but Alistair didn’t stop until it was dead.

 

The emissary died with a gurgle, and Alistair found himself in a strange pocket of calm as the fight continued to clash around him.  He felt like he was moving through treacle as he saw men crossing swords with the darkspawn, and then a hurlock in different armor, one with a helm, raged into the fray.  It swung a massive two-handed sword and cut through another guard, a man Alistair was too far away to help.  The hurlock took one step, then another, and Alistair tracked its line of intent.  It was headed for the Circle mage. 

 

Knowing that protecting the mage was vital for their survival, Alistair hefted his sword and took one step towards the hurlock, but then cried out as something sank into his knee.  Another hurlock, one that had been cut almost in two, but it had dragged itself to him.  One bloody claw gripped his leg, piercing through the padding, sending lines burning lines of agony through him.  Gritting his teeth, Alistair turned and drove his sword through the creature’s open, sickening mouth, a hungry mouth, wrenching his own knee further in the process.  The hurlock fell back to the floor, its grip on his leg coming free, blood running freely from the wound.

 

Breath coming in short gasps, heart hammering, he turned again only to see that he was too late.  The helmed hurlock was on the mage, and Caitwyn, the newest Warden and _archer_ , ran up to it, flinging power at its eyes.  It didn’t work this time, and the hurlock slammed the pommel of its sword into her gut, knocking her back.  She doubled over, hand pressed to her middle and struggling for breath.  Alistair tried to move quickly, pushing the pain away, but his leg would _move_ right.  He watched in horror as the mage only took one step then half of another backwards, trying desperately to gather up his magic to fend of the creature.  But the hurlock was faster, and it ran the mage through, magic fading from the man’s fingertips where it had all too briefly gathered, not in time to save himself.

 

Then the hurlock raised its head, and looked directly at Caitwyn, who was slowly picking herself back up from the ground.

 

With a cry, Alistair stopped trying to run and simply threw himself at the hurlock, putting all his weight behind his shield and slamming the damned thing against the tower wall, its stench filling his nose.  He heard things breaking, but that didn’t stop the darkspawn from slamming the pommel of its sword into Alistair’s shoulder.  The impact almost made him lose his grip on his sword, but he held on, fighting through the burning pain and thrust his sword into the creature’s side.  Through all that the damned thing _still_ fought, abandoning its sword and wrapping one clawed hand around Alistair’s throat.  Choking, fighting for more air, Alistair felt his limbs weaken, already weary from hard fighting, and his shield arm slackened just enough to let the creature’s other hand free.  It sank a claw into his side, and Alistair would have screamed as those talons ripped into his flesh, warm blood running down his side, down his leg, but he had no air in his lungs to do anything.

 

Suddenly, the pressure ceased, and Alistair’s eyes tracked upwards to see an arrow sticking out of the hurlock’s shoulder.  Then another arrow thunked into it, this time in its head, through a gap in its helm.  Then another and another and another, and the grip around Alistair’s throat was gone, the hand falling away.  It slumped to the ground, as Alistair backed up, and he looked to Caitwyn, who had retreated to the other side of the room, giving herself a measure of distance like an archer should. 

 

The sound of fighting had stopped, and Alistair quickly took in the state of the room.  They were only two living things here now.  While he had been trying to save Caitwyn, the other men and fought the darkspawn to their last, and he felt something hard and hot build in his chest, a leaden note against the copper taste of his own blood in his mouth.  But Caitwyn was alright.  He hadn’t failed her, failed to look after he should, as the barely more experienced Warden.  He caught her eye, and she gave him a tight, fierce smile, her sharper than a human’s canines showing, something almost like hope in her green eyes.  In spite of where he was, and the desperate, mad fight they had just been through, with more to come and wounds that were going to keep slowing him down, a smile teased at his lips. 

 

Then blood fountained from her mouth, and a genlock appeared behind her, a vicious, sick grin on its face.  Caitwyn staggered, the impact and the pain taking her by surprise, but with a defiant yell, she turned and drew a knife from the sheath at her back and stabbed up through its jaw, driving the point into its brain.  Limping, he moved as quickly as he could to her, heedless of his own blood loss, and he made it just in time to have her fall against him rather than hit the hard, stone floor.  He had to drop his sword and shield to catch her, and as he did so, he noticed that the dagger was driven deep in her back, just below her ribs.  Worst of all, it was angled up.

 

“That… hurt,” she said, her voice a sick, wet, gurgle, and pressed an arm between them, as though she were trying to pull away from him.  Ignoring that, he held her firmly, pressing his hand to the wound even as blood oozed out between his fingers.  It wasn’t that loss that would kill her, however, it was the blood that filled her lungs that would spell her end.  Carefully, he lowered them both to the floor, their blood pooling around them, and the movement made her cough, the blood on her lips lighter than the darkspawn blood that flecked her face.  He shifted her, trying to angle her so she didn’t drown in her own blood too quickly, and he felt light headed, his own blood loss starting to take its toll.  She looked up at him or maybe it was past him, because her eyes weren’t focusing properly.  Her hand reached up for him, or maybe for someone who wasn’t there, and her lips formed a word, a silent word.

 

“Caitwyn, I can’t hear you, what is it?  We did it, we stopped that wave, alright, so you just need to hold on.  I’ve got you, Caitwyn, but you need to hold on,” he told her, panic edging his voice higher.  She coughed, making more blood gush from her mouth, staining her dark skin a horrific red.

 

“Alistair?  I’m… cold,” she said, not much left to her voice.  “So cold.”  He knew what that meant.  It was warm at the top of the Tower, the signal fire blazing, but she was cold because the warmth of her own life was leaving her, pooling on the floor, running from her mouth.  That same cold began to run through him, as fingers of pain radiated out from his knee and the deep gashes in his side, making his own breathing labored.  Trying to reach her had likely made his own wounds worse, but he couldn’t have left her there, left to her die alone on a cold, stone floor like she was nothing.

 

She was a Warden, too.

 

Her breath came in horrific gasps, and she started to tremble.  Holding her shaking body, he noticed for the first time how small she really was.  She was strong enough to pull a full draw on a longbow, and she was quick and clever, and he had seen her initial distance as confidence.  But she was so small.  She coughed again, more blood, her lungs had to be near to full with her own blood now, and then he heard it, another growl, another darkspawn cry of triumph.  Shoulders bowed, he lifted his head to watch as they ran up the stairs.  His hand reached for the sword he had let fall only moments ago.

 

“I won’t let them take you, I promise,” he said, and he doubted she could hear him now.  Her breathing was so shallow, and she had gone completely limp.  So fast, so quick her decline, but then she didn’t have much blood to loose.  Grimly, he braced his sword on the stone floor and summoned the will to stand.  Because he should stand, stand over her so she could die and pass to the Maker before they took her.  Then he heard something else.  The beating of wings.  Massive wings.

 

The darkspawn seemed to panic, scrambling over the top of each other to get away, to flee whatever was coming, and Alistair looked up as the top of the tower was blasted away by an impossibly precise bolt of lightning.  His eyes trained on the sky, the flash blinded him, and he did not see what came next.  He only felt the strange sensation of being lifted up and cool rain on his face.  Unable to see and disoriented by loss of blood and a searing pain, he felt panic constrict his chest.  He wanted to yell, to shout that Caitwyn needed help, that she needed a healer, but nothing came out save a strangled groan.

 

Then there was only blackness.


End file.
